


Retrograde

by lateralus112358



Series: Out At The Edge [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:12:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateralus112358/pseuds/lateralus112358
Summary: A quiet moment on a journey through space.





	Retrograde

Though much vaunted as the final frontier, the procession through space resembles less of an expedition through vibrant, uncharted lands, and more of an infinence of monotony. Stars, millions of years away, telegraph their indifference to the intrepid traverser of space by their refusal to alter their positions in the cosmic backdrop. The more immediate vistas offer a similar dynamic vacuum, which in a universe that is comprised of more than ninety-nine percent empty space can hardly be considered surprising. 

The craft that crosses this swath of emptiness is vaguely circular; an outer ring, with windows sporadically placed along its span looking into the main habitable sections of the craft, the rooms within designed along a constant curve. Spoke-like struts run to the ring’s center, propulsors distributed along their length. The craft itself - though one of the ‘tumbler’ models designed for tourists who found zero gravity an unpleasant experience - bears additions and modifications that mark it as a cargo hauler. Long after the excitement of space travel had dulled for most, the necessity for transportation of goods between planets remained, and many of the tourist crafts had been repurposed for long hauls. Three-quarters of the outer ring, designed to be living and gathering areas for guests, have been blocked off from the main ventilation system and used solely to store the cargo in transit. Deviations from the craft’s nominal circular shape stem from irregular protuberances along the outside of the ring; locations where the control hubs for various ship systems, such as air filtration, water recycling, and propulsion are housed. 

Shaw, inside her pressurized suit, magnet-tipped boots holding her to the exterior of the ship, carefully dismantles one such system. Each part, as it is gently unscrewed from the larger apparatus, is placed on a long magnetic plate, which is itself connected to the ship, holding the components until they are ready to be replaced, keeping them from drifting out into the endless vacuum. It’s precise, monotonous work, but Shaw finds a certain satisfaction in it. Solitudinous as well, which she finds similarly satisfactory.

On cue, her com breathes treble-y static into her ears briefly, then departs. Then again. On. Off. On. Off.

“Root.” She says, her tone eliminating the need for clarification.

“What is it, sweetie?” Root asks innocently.

“I almost miss your stupid radio show,” Shaw sighs, removing another bolt and jamming it onto the magnetic plate. 

“I tried recording a few episodes,” Root says wistfully. “Wasn’t the same, though. Being live makes me feel a lot more intimate with my listeners, you know?”

“You only had one listener.”

“One hundred percent success rate, then.”

Shaw keeps working, and doesn’t respond. After a few silent minutes, her com crackles again and Root says, “I’m starting to feel like you’re trying to avoid me, Sameen.”

“Someone’s gotta fix this,” Shaw says shortly. “Unless you just want to float out here forever.”

“Floating with you sounds nice.”

Shaw continues her work on the ship’s propulsion system. ‘Forever’ is a bit of an exaggeration. It wouldn’t take more than a few months for someone to notice a shipment of goods had failed to arrive. And since the majority of their cargo is canned and processed food, they’d hardly be in danger of starving during the interim.

Shaw sighs. “Look, it’s not you, all right? I just need some space.”

“Plenty of that around here,” Root quips, and then falls silent.

Shaw locates the defunct actuator, removes it, and inserts one of the spares. This isn’t the first time on their voyage that the craft has malfunctioned; years of prior use, upgrades, downgrades, repairs, misrepairs, accidents, and ill-conceived but well-intentioned modifications have caused intermittent maintenance to be a constant companion, one almost as overbearing as Shaw’s _actual_ companion for the trip. 

They’d carved out a nice enough living space for themselves, in the few rooms available to them arrayed along the length of the outer ring. A lot of the furniture and amenities, while worn down, were still fairly luxurious. They had a bedroom, complete with straps, which they’d started using after the ship had stopped its gravity-inducing tumbling of its own accord, and they’d both woken floating aimlessly across the room. They had access to a room that they’d converted into a joint dining/lounging area that featured a large, almost panaromic window into space. Still, their living area, spacious perhaps for tourists on a casual two-day jaunt into space, becomes incredibly confining over months, especially with over half the ship taken up by the cargo they have to carry to finance the voyage in the first place.

Then again, maybe it’s not the space Shaw finds confining. She’s never been much of a people person.

“How did you end up out in the Belt, Sameen?” Root asks, breaking the long silence.

“I like the quiet.” Shaw grabs a bolt from the magnetic plate, loading it into her bolt-gun. She adds, “I went to some recruitment pitch back home. Heard you never really have to deal with other people, and I signed up before you could say Brennschluss.” She picks up another bolt. “How about you?”

“I was just looking for you.” 

Shaw snorts. Personal questions are often met with this kind of deflection.

“I understand if you need space sometimes, sweetie,” Root says. “I need things too, you know.”

“What?”

“Back massages.”

Shaw laughs. As much as she sometimes needs to get outside the ship, bask in the emptiness and silence for a while, somehow she always gets drawn back. She doesn’t really like many people, but she likes Root, for some utterly incomprehensible reason. Or, at the very least, they’re connected, in some permanent, immutable way.

She closes the panel that covers the actuator compartment and locks it up. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

***

“I’ve wanted to be an astronaut since I was five.” Root says quietly, head leaning against Shaw’s shoulder, the newly retumbling ship pushing them down onto the couch as they look out on the spinning stars. Both of them are accustomed enough to the phenomenon that it doesn’t induce nausea, and instead is almost hypnotic.

“I think when I was five I wanted to be a dog.” Shaw says, feeling the shakes of Root's laughter against her. 

Root laughs again. “I wish everyone could see this part of you, Sameen.”

“I’m fine with just you.”

Root smiles. “You’re right, sweetie. I prefer having you all to myself anyway.” She curls up her legs on the couch and pulls herself closer to Shaw, looking out at the cosmos. “I’ve always liked how small the universe makes you,” she says. “You look out at space and no matter what you are all you amount to is dust.”

“And you find that comforting?” Shaw says sarcastically.

“Because even though we’re dust, so is everything else. It doesn’t matter what you’re going through, you’re always part of something far bigger than you can imagine. We’re the birth and death of stars, Sameen. We’re black holes and supernovas. We’re little pieces of infinity.”

“If this is your idea of foreplay, it’s not really working for me.”

Root pokes her in the side. “Be serious, sweetie.”

“I’ve never felt like that,” Shaw admits. “I’ve never really felt like a part of anything, honestly. Except this.”

“By ‘this,’ do you mean me?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Clearly, I’m not the only one who’s bad at being romantic.”

Silence falls, and they watch through the window as their craft rolls them across the vacuum of space. It’s not a bad way to live, Shaw concedes, all things considered.

**Author's Note:**

> The alternate title for this story is Space Road Truckers. 
> 
> This story was mostly written while I was listening to Bohren & Der Club of Gore’s _Piano Nights_. The music’s quite a bit bleaker than I really imagine this story, but the songs have a lot of open space that I think complements it really well. Pretty cool if you’re into quiet, bleak, jazzy stuff. And, let’s be honest, who isn’t??
> 
> Thanks as always to everyone who reads and comments!


End file.
